Better Late
by ChiaroscuroEffect
Summary: AU. In the modern world, Spain meets Romano for the first time. Romano, on the other hand, isn't pleased to have Spain running around after him. Spain/Romano/Spain.
1. Chapter 1

**Better Late**

_Part 1_

ChiaroscuroEffect

Summary: AU. In the modern world, Spain meets Romano for the first time. Romano, on the other hand, isn't pleased to have Spain running around after him.

AU: In this particular universe, the nations exist as we know them, but Austria, when given control over the Italies, decided Spain couldn't be trusted to take care of another person, let alone himself, so Romano got bounced around a lot, but was never under Spanish control.

Disclaimer: Hetalia Axis Powers belongs to Hidekazu Himaruya

Spain was in Sicily, where Italy had asked him to meet, saying that he was visiting his brother. "You can't miss the house," he'd said, waving his arms. "It's the little one by the sea with the red shutters and the biiiig garden!"

Unfortunately, he'd forgotten to call to remind Italy that he was supposed to be stopping by. That was probably why no one was there. Or it was because he was just a little late. He stood back from the door, painted a cheery red that matched the shutters, trying to figure out what to do. His cell phone was dead, and even if it wasn't, Italy's probably was.

He decided to check out the garden. He wasn't expecting much, because he'd given Italy a potted tomato plant once after he'd admired Spain's garden and the poor thing had died of neglect. (Spain had been a little horrified.)

He was pleasantly surprised. Instead of an overgrown wasteland, there was row upon row of carefully tended tomato plants, filled with delicious looking ripening tomatoes.

He'd just picked one to savor when he heard a soft yelp and a thump.

He turned to see Italy…no, wait, that wasn't Italy, was it? Someone had apparently just emerged from the shed and dropped the watering can upon seeing him in the garden.

"Oh, hello!" Spain said cheerily. "I'm looking for Italy, he said to meet him here, I think. I could be wrong. Is this your garden? It's very nice! You should come see mine sometime, I think you would like it too~!"

The nation slowly picked up the watering can. He really did look a lot like Italy, but with darker hair and eyes, and a curl standing up from his forehead rather than twirling around his ear. He was dressed for gardening, in worn jeans and a t-shirt, a straw hat dangling from the cord hung around the man's neck. If Spain had been paying any attention, he would have noticed that there seemed to be some inward debate about whether or not to answer him.

"Who the fuck are you?" he finally asked.

"I'm the Kingdom of Spain! _Reino de España_!"

"Spain…you're that guy that hangs around with France and Prussia?"

"Si!" And because someone who kept such a nice garden (it certainly wasn't Italy's doing, the plant murderer) was worth knowing, he said, "Who are you?"

"Me?" The other nation seemed surprised. "I'm South Italy. _L'Italia Meridionale__. _Most people call me Romano, if they remember I'm alive. And…what are you doing with my tomato, bastard?"

"Oh, this," Spain said, remembering the fruit he was holding. "I was going to eat it! It looked so perfect and delicious, and I wanted to see if it was as good as mine! I brought them back from the Americas, you know!"

"Of course it is, in fact, I bet you it's better than yours!" Romano put his hands on his hips and glared. After a moment though, watching Spain eat the (really very excellent) tomato, he crossed them over his chest.

"I've never seen someone else eat them like that."

"Like what?" Spain asked guiltily. France and Prussia made fun of it sometimes, saying you weren't supposed to just bite into them. He realized he had seeds on his tie and haphazardly brushed them off.

"Like an apple. Veniziano doesn't even like them unless they're cooked."

"Is that Italy?" At the sudden glare, he amended it to "North Italy?"

"Yeah." Seemingly making a decision, he pointed to the back door. "In. I'll see if I can get a hold of him."

Spain was soon seated at the scarred wooden kitchen table, watching Romano's back as he tried to locate his brother by phone.

"His cell's dead, of course I tried that first, how fucking dumb do you think I am?" and "I just wanted to know if you'd seen him! I've got Spain sitting in my kitchen!" were constantly repeated sentences. Spain drummed his heels idly against the chair. It was a nice kitchen, he thought dreamily. It had very pretty tiles, red and green and white patterns. Lots of dishcloths flung everywhere. Worn copper pots, wooden spoons.

When the novelty of staring at the kitchen walls faded, he unabashedly checked out Romano, comparing him to his brother. Where Italy was all childish and cute and skinny, Romano was leaner, a little more filled out in the shoulders. He probably had a hard time finding pants that would stay on his narrow hips, Spain speculated, before moving his eyes upwards.

Romano was staring at him. "You…you…what…"

Spain watched in amazement as the man turned bright red. "You look just like a tomato…so cute…"

"You were staring at my ass," the other nation finally managed to spit out.

"Si," he agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm sorry. It's a very nice ass, though."

He hadn't thought Romano could get redder. He had been wrong.

"Just…just stay there," the man told him, "And don't you try anything, tomato bastard! I lived with France for a while, so I know how to handle myself!"

"I'm sure you do!" Spain agreed, cheerful now that it didn't look like he was in any trouble. The other nation frowned at him, gauging his sincerity.

"Just…damn it, he's probably over at the potato bastard's again…"

"Potato bastard?"

"Germany," and Spain had never heard a word said with such vehemence before. Romano stared at the phone for a moment, and then back at him.

"Is this meeting important?"

"Yes? We're putting together a presentation about the state of tourism in the Mediterranean, and ways of boosting it. Greece might show up later," he added. "But he has to wake up enough first."

Romano gnawed on his lower lip. "Fuck. I put together that information, it is important." With a long sigh, he picked up the phone and started dialing.

"Ciao. …No. I said no. Fuck you, Prussia, put your brother or mine on the phone this instant, I've got your friend Spain sitting in my kitchen looking for Veniziano, about some stupid meeting."

"_HI SPAIN!_" Prussia's voice was really quiet from where Spain was sitting, but the way Romano jumped, it probably was a lot louder if you were holding the phone to your ear.

"Put Veniziano on the phone. Now," and Romano's voice was really quiet all of sudden, and really scary sounding.

Later, when he'd finally gotten to meet up with Italy, who cried and told him he and Germany and Prussia were just getting gelato and away from his brother, because Romano got so mad when he and Germany hung out, ve, he realized he hadn't asked South Italy if he wanted to be friends. If nothing else, they had gardening in common, and Romano was really cute when he wasn't angry. So he zoned out a little bit during the meeting, thinking about tomato-red cheeks and a nice ass and wondering, idly, if Romano was dating anyone, and if he wasn't, the best way to go about asking him out.

Romano was aware that he was not the most highly-regarded nation (half a nation) in the world. He was nothing like his brother, sweet, talented, loving Veniziano. No, he was ungrateful and loud and cruel, and other nations avoided him. That was fine with Romano. He didn't need them. He didn't need anyone.

(Don't leave me alone, cried the tiny nation, watching Rome walk off, Veniziano held securely in his arms. I don't want to be alone.)

Most of the other nations blamed his upbringing, or lack thereof. He'd spent a little time in Austria's house with Veniziano after Rome had died, and some in Turkey's, and some in France's, but since none of them really cared much about the temperamental child beyond their own immediate wants of him, he'd mostly raised himself.

(He'd been given up without a fight, he was only a conquest, that was all, nothing valuable about him except for his lands.)

After the unification, he'd mostly withdrawn from the rest of the nations, except for his brother. It wasn't like he wanted to keep in touch with any of his old bosses. He'd stayed in his house in Sicily, growing the tomatoes that had been so scarce in his childhood, and taking care of the Nation business that Veniziano couldn't. He'd been mostly happy, then, with his brother keeping him company and their country at peace for the first time in a long, long time.

And then the World Wars had happened, and Veniziano had met Germany, and everything had gone straight to hell. He still wasn't sure if his brother realized the full extent of what Germany had done. Romano had betrayed them, sold out Italy to the Allies, to save what little he could of the situation.

(I couldn't do anything else, he screamed into Veniziano's face. They were dying and hurting and you were gone! You left me to die!)

Veniziano still hung around with Germany all the time. Romano had tried not to care after the war, even as he sank further into the arms of the mafia, and even now avoided them as often as possible. His relationship with his brother, never good at the best of times, had been on the rocks ever since.

(If he cared about someone, he'd given them the tools to hurt him. Drawn an x over his heart and shown them where to stab. The dons and made men with their false smiles and expensive suits had taught him that. He would never be that vulnerable again.)

Spain stood in his doorway, not looking for Veniziano, this time, with a bouquet of daisies, looking hopeful. "Romano, I wanted to see if you'd maybe consider going on a date with me?"

"A date." Romano said blankly. "Why…why would you…"

"Because you're really cute? And I asked your brother, and he said you weren't seeing anyone…and you like tomatoes too, and growing them, and I think I could fall for you if you give me a chance!" Having concluded his speech, Spain held out the daisies again, along with a bright smile. Romano stared at both offerings blankly.

Could fall for him? Hadn't he heard anything Romano had said since they'd met?

"Leave me alone," he said, knowing his voice was too sharp. "Just go away, and leave me alone!"

"But Romano-"

"GO THE FUCK AWAY!"

The nation looked disappointed for a split second, and then looked back up. "Well, if you don't want to go on a date, would you maybe like to come over and see my garden sometime? I mean, there are so few nations with a real interest, I mean, besides the agricultural stuff. So it would be nice! I could make you paella, if you've never had it!"

Romano stood still for a split second, and then slammed the red door in the man's face.

"Um…Romano…? It's ok if you don't want to try paella…or see my garden, or date me," came the muffled voice. "But I like you a lot, and I would like to get to know you better…we could be friends, right?"

He refused to answer, until at last the other nation went away. He'd left the daisies on the mat in front of the door, though, and a hastily scrawled note with his phone number and address, just in case he changed his mind.

Romano tore up both, and promptly put the remains in the compost bin.

Austria threw a party every year, to celebrate United Nations Day. Well, it was supposed to be a party. Spain thought parties should be a lot louder, with drinking and dancing, maybe karaoke, but Austria apparently thought it meant having half the world over for light refreshments and conversation, and Spain wasn't allowed to get drunk, not after the one year where he and France and Prussia had apparently destroyed the kitchen trying to bake a cake. He didn't remember that part, really, just waking up on the kitchen table half-naked with a hangover and flour in his hair.

Good times.

But fresh from his defeat in trying to take Romano out on a date and even worse, his defeat in trying to befriend the prickly half-nation, he wasn't really in the mood to play nice with his ex-husband, or anyone else, either. So he was hiding in the kitchen. He liked kitchens. They were always the heart and soul of a home. Austria's was kind of too neat and clean for him, though, but it was still better than playing nice with England and the Netherlands.

Italy bustled in, with empty appetizer trays. "Oh! Hi, Spain! How are you?"

"Ok. You're helping out Austria? That's super nice of you."

"Yup! He's wondering where you are!" The trays were deposited in the sink, and then Italy hopped onto one of the tall stools surrounding the kitchen island Spain was leaning against. "You and Romano."

"Romano's coming to the party?" Spain said slowly. The other man nodded, looking slightly confused, curl bobbing.

"I make him, every year. He shows up kinda late and leaves really early though."

"How do I look?"

"What?"

"How do I look?" Spain ran his fingers through his curly hair distractedly. Italy eyed him.

"Fine, I mean, your jacket's out of style, and…ve, Spain, you really need new trainers…but…are you trying to impress Romano…?"

"He's so cute…not that you're not cute too, Italy, but he blushes so red, and I really want to get to know him, but he yelled at me when I got him flowers and told me to go away, so I did, but maybe I can do something to make him want to hang out with me? And then we can be friends!"

"You got him flowers? Is that what he was grumbling about the other day? Ve! That's so adorable, Spain!"

"What's adorable now?" came a soft, low voice from behind Italy. Spain met Romano's eyes and started staring, not stopping when the man turned his head and met his eyes, scowling.

Romano looked good. Romano looked really good. From the snug brown leather jacket to the faded black button up with the loosened red tie, dark jeans on his long legs…

He was carrying a helmet, which he sat on the kitchen table. "You ride a motorcycle?" Spain blurted out.

"Noooo, silly. Romano has a Vespa. It's a really pretty glossy red." Italy chimed in. "But it's cold out, Roma, you should have taken the Ferrari."

"I like my Vespa." Romano threw over his shoulder as he exited the kitchen. "I'm going to find something to eat."

"Oooh! Good idea, I'll come with you!" Italy bounced after Romano.

Spain leaned back against the wall. After a moment of consideration, he went to the table and picked up the helmet.

It was red, probably to match the aforesaid scooter. Someone had put a tomato sticker on one side. The insides were soft and worn, and Spain sternly told himself that only creepy people smelled helmets.

He was halfway through sticking his face in to try anyways when the kitchen door opened.

Luckily, it was France. "Mon cher, why are you hiding in the kitchen? Prussia is looking for you. I think he has firecrackers. And…what are you doing with little Romano's helmet?"

"Putting it on the table!" Spain said quickly. Then, "Wait. You know Romano?"

"Of course. He lived under my care when he was young. Well, sometimes. He's a terrible prude, you see, so I sent him back to Austria now and then." France rubbed his chin. "And I know Austria sent him to Turkey when he couldn't handle him anymore. Really, I've never met a ruder child. He never wanted to hug, or kiss…or sit on my lap…"

Spain laughed nervously. "He's not that bad."

"My dear, you have no idea. I'm sure Austria is at this very moment berating him on his rudeness…and his posture…and probably his clothing as well."

"What…? Why?"

France shrugged elegantly. "The child has no grace in his soul, no appreciation of l'amour, of the finer things in life." He sighed theatrically. "We tried to instill these things in him, but…" He trailed off, a martyr in the face of overwhelming odds.

"FUCK YOU, I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ANYMORE!" Romano came bursting in the kitchen door, Italy behind him, pulling at his sleeve.

"Roma, Roma, ve, please calm down, you're scary when you're like this!"

"I'm going home," Romano said, his voice shaking. "You can stay. I don't care."

For a second his eyes met Spain's, and then he was shoving past, grabbing his helmet. They heard the engine start, and then the sound of it disappearing into the distance.

"Like I said," France said, idly swirling the wine in his glass, "No appreciation."

Romano didn't make it all that far, really, just to the nearest all-night café. He knew better than to drive when he was so worked up. He'd lost his last three scooters that way.

Damn Austria. Where the hell did he feel he got the right to criticize Romano? He'd practically thrown him at Turkey multiple times to avoid a minor war, and he and France had fought over who had to keep him when he wasn't stuck with stupid smug Turkey. Fuck him. It wasn't like he actually cared, anyways. He just wanted people to look at Romano and say how good he was at raising kids. Well, he wasn't. Veniziano was just perfect to start with. And fuck if Romano was going to kowtow to a nation that didn't even realize why he was so pissed off.

The pricklings of shame he was feeling weren't about anything he'd said to Austria. It was seeing Spain's face after he'd heard Romano shouting. And France had been there too, probably telling the green-eyed nation all about how very uncontrollable and rude he was.

And that was good, because then Spain would leave him alone. He'd give up this absurd idea of dating. He'd be left in peace, alone in his house.

The bell over the door tinkled. Romano stayed where he was, face flat on the table, unwanted cappuccino slowly getting colder. All the stupid parties ended like this. He wasn't looking for fights, like Veniziano accused him of, but if he didn't stand up for himself, how could he call himself a nation? He might as well lie down and die and let Italy take care of everything.

He felt someone slide into the booth on the other side, and peeled his face off the table to yell at his brother.

It wasn't Veniziano.

"Hi, Romano," Spain said softly. His dark curly hair was tousled, his cheeks were faintly pink, his eyes were that soft, warm green, and his ridiculously bright orange scarf was slightly askew.

He felt his heart jump, even though it was the last person he wanted to see, even though he knew he looked like shit right now, hair messed up, face all weird from pressing it into the table, damp from the misty rain falling.

He let his face smack back down on the table. Fuck _everything_.

He heard the waitress come over, heard Spain order something in halting German. He moved just enough so he could look up a little at the other man.

Spain was watching him with a dreamy sort of gaze. Not like France, where he could feel the man's eyes like fingers, or Austria's glare of disapproval, or Turkey's utter amusement, but just. Just…watching. It was almost the same look that he'd had when he was checking out Romano's ass in his own kitchen.

It made him feel warm. He stomped on the feeling. He wasn't doing this. He _wouldn't let this happen_.

Spain reached across the table, and tangled their fingers together, smiling softly. "Your hands are cold."

"Why are you here, bastard?" he asked, voice muffled a little.

"Spain."

"What?" He sat up a little more.

"Call me Spain. Can I call you Romanito? Or Roma? It's so cute…"

He stared. "What?"

"Spain? It's my name. You haven't forgotten already, have you?" Spain took his other hand now too, and he had to admit they felt warmer. He felt warmer.

This was a very bad idea. He knew it was. He shouldn't.

"…Fine. Spain. Why are you here?"

"Because you looked really sad when you left." The man gripped his hands a little tighter. "I didn't want you to be sad all by yourself. So Ita- North Italy told me you'd probably be here."

"Idiot. I'd be fine. It happens every year."

"You…no one comes to make sure you're ok?"

"No?" Romano said, confused. "Who'd come after me, anyways? Veniziano did a couple times until I told him to quit it."

"Oh…" He didn't like the look on Spain's face. It dimmed the glow of his green eyes. "Roma, why do you say that like you think no one cares?"

"Because no one does, bastard." He took his hands back, and watched as the waitress slid a plate of pasta in front of the other man. Remembering his coffee, he reached for it and took a sip. Stone cold. Disgusting.

"What? No, Roma, that can't be true!" He nearly growled at the way the man was ignoring his serviceable (even if it was Austrian) pasta. It even had nice big chunks of tomato in it.

"If it isn't, they've got a funny way of showing it," he muttered. Then, louder, "Look, eat, and I'll tell you the sorry story, but don't waste food."

Spain obediently shoved a forkful of pasta into his mouth and waited expectantly.

"God…look, I'm a brat. Always have been. Rome took Veniziano and left when I was really little, the next thing I knew he was dead, we went to live with Austria, Austria traded me to Turkey so he wouldn't have to fight the Ottoman Empire, Turkey got tired of me and France claimed me, and then he got bored and sent me back to Austria. So on and so forth. A couple hundred years later, Veniziano and I finally got our independence. And since then, they get together at parties and badmouth me when they think I can't hear. And then Austria has the balls to go tell me that I'm doing everything wrong! Fuck him. He's never even been to my place!"

"What? But it's so pretty! And you have such a nice tomato garden!"

Romano was ready to snap at him for teasing, until he met Spain's eyes and realized he was _serious_.

"Don't say things you don't mean," he grumbled instead.

"But I do! And I really really want you to come see my house too!"

"Maybe. But don't count on it!"

Spain beamed at him, full of joy and spirit and simple happiness. Romano managed a tiny smile back, his stomach sinking.

Maybe he could survive this one more time, maybe it was worth seeing Spain look like that, knowing it was because of him.

He wasn't really sure if there was even a choice, anymore.

A/N: Next chapter: Romano goes to visit Spain in…well, Spain.

Virtual cookies for anyone who catches a human name stuck in there somewhere, I switched about halfway and I have no idea if I caught them all in my read through.


	2. Chapter 2

**Better Late**

_Part 2_

ChiaroscuroEffect

Summary: AU. In the modern world, Spain meets Romano for the first time. Romano, on the other hand, isn't pleased to have Spain running around after him.

AU: In this particular universe, the nations exist as we know them, but Austria, when given control over the Italies, decided Spain couldn't be trusted to take care of himself, let alone another person, so Romano got bounced around a lot, but was never under Spanish control.

Disclaimer: Hetalia Axis Powers belongs to Hidekazu Himaruya.

* * *

><p>Romano had never been to anyone's home on a friendly visit before.<p>

He stood, awkwardly, in front of Spain's house, clutching his bottle of 'thank you for inviting me to your place' red wine in one hand and the strap of his helmet in the other. It was bigger than his home in Sicily, and at least as big as the one he technically shared with Veniziano in Rome. It was a cheerful yellow, and full of huge windows with fluttering curtains.

Intimidated, Romano slunk off to the back of the House to see the garden instead. He'd had his brother call Spain so that the idiot would know he was on his way, but still, a little more time to collect himself would be nice. He wasn't sure how to deal with his pounding heart. Fuck, he wasn't even sure exactly why it was pounding. But it was important to Spain that he come here, and that was what friends did, right?

He rounded the corner to be met with a jungle of plants. Spain had tomatoes, yes, but also a tangle of autumnal flowers in bright colors, and other vegetables in rows. Some of them had already been plowed under, or prepared for winter. It was beautiful. Maybe the tomato bastard hadn't been too far off the mark wanting to talk to him about gardening.

He heard humming, and ducked behind a trellis trailing vines as Spain straightened from where he'd been picking the last of the bright red tomatoes. He bent over again to pick up the basket, and Romano may or may not have admired the sunny nation's ass just a little. Even if he had, it was only fair, after the eyeful Spain had gotten of his.

"Ok, so I cleaned, and I weeded, and I have tomatoes to make something yummy for Roma…" Spain ticked the tasks off on the fingers of his free hand. "And he should be here soon!"

Behind his trellis, Romano tensed. No one had ever sounded so pleased to see him before…

_You'd let him hurt you for this, wouldn't you? For a taste of this, you fucking masochist. _

He tried to block out his subconscious. Spain was nice. He said he liked Romano, that he wanted to be friends. He had to be willing to believe that, or he might as well just go home now.

He stepped out. "C…ciao."

"Roma! You're here!" Spain ran up to him, basket clutched in one hand, beaming as he gestured at the garden. "Look, look! Isn't it great?"

"Yeah, yeah. What kind of sun do you get here?"

That got Spain off and running, and he walked alongside the other man and thought maybe he wasn't so bad at this whole conversation thing.

After his tour of the gardens, and tour of the still giant house, most of which was dusty and closed up, they ended up in Spain's kitchen, which was nicely appointed, and painted in the same sunshine-y yellow. The man bustled about as Romano leaned back against the counter and listened to the idiot go on about paella and all its permutations. The pan he was unhooking was flat and battered-looking, as opposed to the rest of the shiny cookware.

"Hey," he said, interrupting the other man's monologue about how paella mariscos was really his favorite, but shh don't tell the Valencians that. "How come it's just you in this big house…?"

"Oh…I used to have a lot of colonies, back in the day, but they're all gone now," Spain said over his shoulder, adding a handful of shrimp to the stuff he had sautéing. "Independent. France and Prussia and I hang out a lot, but not usually at the house. We go drinking."

"Colonies, huh…never met any of them. I was a protectorate during that time."

"I had them too! Belgium, and the Netherlands. Until they rebelled and got their independence. And my colonies…well. It was a different time and I was different then too. The Netherlands and I still don't really get along. But the Empire days are long over. I really should clean up the rest of the place, but I don't really need it now…" There was a hint of something sad in the other man's voice, one that Romano recognized. He'd spent a lot of time with it.

"Don't you get lonely?" Romano asked before he could think better of it.

"Yeah," Spain said softly. "But it's not so bad, really, I have France and Prussia, like I said, and there's the World Conferences, and sometimes I get to go see people on business! And now there's you too, Roma!"

He could feel the blush spread over his face, and to distract the Spaniard, he shoved off the counter. "So what goes in this…paella thing…?"

* * *

><p>Romano really, really liked paella. Sure, he'd mostly mumbled something like "S'okay," in response to Spain's query on whether he was enjoying it, but he'd put away about four servings and two glasses of wine, and he was starting to think that Roma's actions spoke louder than his words.<p>

"Ahh, that was good," he sighed contentedly. "Do you do siestas in South Italy?"

"No…Veneziano does something like that, though. I could go for a nap," Romano decided. Spain had meant to go to his room, but Roma fell asleep so quickly, right there on the couch, a blanket draped over his shoulders, and while he told himself he was being weird again, Roma looked…peaceful. Less tense. And Spain had had a couple of glasses of the wine Roma'd brought him himself, so maybe he could get away with saying he wasn't sleepy, if the other nation asked. He curled up on the loveseat with another blanket and just watched the younger nation sleep.

He looked so much younger asleep. But really, they were close to the same age, even if the other man had been stuck in a child's body for so much longer. All the tension seemed to drain out, and Spain suddenly wondered what it would look like if he smiled.

What had France said about Romano? No grace, no appreciation for fine things? But he'd spent some time with him, now, and Romano was South Italy, tourism and agriculture, long summer days, tomatoes and grapes from the vine, strong red wine, bread with good olive oil and sea salt, warm earth and old architecture. Maybe it wasn't grace or elegance as the other nations saw it, but Romano was something different, something special. Maybe it was just because a lot of the nations thought Spain, himself, was just a country bumpkin with a big smile and lots of tomatoes.

Also maybe he was a little drunk after all, and feeling kind of poetic.

He really wanted to kiss him. He really wished Romano wanted to date him. It had been very hard to restrain himself, but he had, even though restraint was not his strong suit and never had been. Lost in thought, he didn't realize that the younger nation's sudden distress.

Romano shot up from his prone position, blanket slipping off. After a moment, he started breathing again. After another, longer moment, he muttered a half-hearted "Fuck…"

"Roma?"

"Oh, fuck." He watched Romano become tense again, eyes narrowing. "Nothing. Go back to sleep. I'll just go…walk around the garden or something."

"You're crying."

"No, I'm not," he automatically denied. "My eyes…just get dry sometimes…"

There was a quiet moment. Romano turned his head and ran his sleeve over his eyes as discreetly as possible.

"Was it a nightmare?"

"Fucking hell, haven't I been clear enough? I don't want to talk about it."

"Are you okay?" Spain persisted. "I know a cheer-up charm if that would help!" He made a move to get up.

"Don't. Stay there. I said- Spain, sit the fuck back down where I can see you!"

Spain froze at the commanding tone, staring at him almost in shock. Romano took a deep breath.

"Sit. Don't argue with me, just sit." Spain sat. "Thank you," he added, after a moment, regaining a little composure. "Just stay still for a little bit. Fuck, fuck, fuck…"

He could still smell the smoke, still feel the bombs impacting his land. It figured he'd have a dream about World War Two when he wasn't home.

He looked up when he heard a strange noise.

"Fusosososo…fusosososo…" Spain was waving his hands gently in the air, and Romano could have sworn he saw sparkles coming off the overly-cheery nation.

Against all odds, he could feel the corners of his mouth threatening to twitch upwards in a smile. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Staying still and sitting and doing a cheer-up charm for you! Is it working?"

Yes, Romano wanted to say, because now I'm thinking what an idiot you are instead of about ash and rubble. "No. Idiot. And…I still smell smoke. Is something burning…?"

"Burning?" Spain tilted his head, thinking. "Oh! Did I leave the stove on?"

* * *

><p>After saving Spain's house from burning down due to an improperly placed dishcloth, Romano decided it was probably time to call it a day before he had to answer any awkward questions or things started to go even worse.<p>

"Thanks for coming over, Roma, it meant a lot to me." Spain gave him another one of those impossibly sweet smiles as he walked him to his Vespa.

"S-sure. I mean…it was nice." Romano bit his tongue to stop himself from saying anything else stupid. "Maybe you could come visit sometime. You know. Properly." And failed. Not sure what else to say, he shut his mouth, and looked at the ground.

"I can come visit? Of course I will!" Spain pulled him into a hug, arms locked around him tightly.

His breath caught, and this time the other man definitely saw the embarrassing red flush on his cheeks. It was too much, and he was still too on edge from earlier. Damn it…Spain didn't know how screwed up he was yet. Was it too much to ask that he never find out?

"You're so red, Roma…are you okay…? You look just like a tomato…" Spain murmured into his hair.

"Stop it."

"Friends hug," the other man argued.

"_I_ don't hug."

"Why don't you like it when people are nice to you? You get even angrier than if they're not."

"I'm just not like that." Romano tried to pull out of the warm arms surrounding him.

"Veneziano likes to hug and-"

"I'm not Veneziano!" He finally succeeded in breaking free, and snatched up his helmet. He didn't turn around. Spain would be disappointed, and he didn't want to see it. Fuck. "I'm Italia _Romano_. Why doesn't anyone fucking understand that? We're not the same!"

There was no answer, and he buckled the helmet. He wanted to turn and look at the man who barely knew him, to see if he'd ruined everything, like he was so good at doing.

Fuck. Spain wouldn't want to hang out after this, after he'd proved France and Austria right. Spain would know better than that now. Because Romano was Romano.

Even if sometimes he would rather be anyone but himself.

"Romano."

He turned automatically at the sound of his name. Spain looked very serious and kind of thoughtful as he leaned forwards. And leaned forwards. And…and he was getting really really close…

When their lips met, he could only stare in shock. It wasn't a good kiss. He wasn't moving at all, his eyes were still open, and Spain was trying, he was pretty sure, but he could only do so much with no cooperation.

He stood still until it ended.

And then backed off slowly, like Spain had turned into something venomous, and got on his Vespa, and drove off as quickly as possible.

Spain stood there for a while, and then made his way slowly back inside.

* * *

><p>"Romano, you're home! Ve, I was going to make tagliatelle for dinner, would you make your pomodoro e basilico sauce?"<p>

Romano didn't bother answering. He dropped his helmet on the floor by the coat rack and peeled off his jacket as Veneziano appeared in the foyer. The house in Rome was a lot bigger than his one in Sicily, as befitted the capital, but it just brought back bad memories.

Veneziano didn't get that it wasn't home for him anymore, though, so he spent time there now and then just so the idiot didn't kick up a fuss.

"Romano?"

He would have gone all the way to Sicily except he'd promised to stop by.

"Romaaaaaa~!"

His head snapped up. "What?"

Veneziano pouted. "I just wanted to know if you'd make that sauce to go with the pasta. Did something go wrong at big brother Spain's?"

"He's an idiot." That was really all Veneziano needed to know. God, it was so embarrassing…

"He's really funny though, and super nice, and a great cook, and I hear he's good in bed!" Veneziano beamed at him. "So you should give him a chance!"

"What." He did his best not to snarl the word, but given the panicked look stealing over his brother's face, he hadn't succeeded.

"He said he wanted to impress you so you'd want to go out with him but I guess that didn't work, ve…so sad. Was it the trainers? I could always take him shoe shopping if that's it! We could make him over, and then he'd be so handsome that you would swoon and then you'd want to kiss him lots and lots and tell him how nice he looks and then he'd blush and then you could get married and have kids and then I'd be an uncle, ve!"

"I don't even want to know what goes on in your mind," Romano muttered, giving it up as a lost cause. He hadn't been impressed. The whole damn trip had just driven it further and further in that he wasn't worth the other nation's time, and that somehow, somewhere, Spain was making a terrible, foolish mistake.

He should have stayed home.

* * *

><p>"Spain?" France called gently, letting himself into the house. "Spaiiiin, we're supposed to go out tonight, remember? Is your…visitor…still here?"<p>

"I…don't really feel like it, France. You guys should go ahead." Spain was lying on the couch, an arm over his eyes.

"Did something happen with Romano?" France said, comfortingly. "I know you were very excited, but he is a difficult child. No one will be surprised."

Behind him, the door opened and closed. "What's taking so loooong? Spain, you sick?"

"He is lovesick. His date did not go as well as he hoped." France tried not to interject a note of 'I told you so', but it was very difficult.

"It wasn't a date," Spain moaned. "He didn't do anything wrong."

Prussia and France exchanged glances.

"He didn't do anything wrong?" France said skeptically.

"Who are we talking about?" Prussia asked.

"Romano." Spain shoved himself up. "He was shy and cute and he liked my paella and he was just…just wonderful, and then I think he had a nightmare during his siesta. And then I think I messed everything up."

"How so?" France leaned forward. "The way you were carrying on, I was certain it was a date."

"He doesn't want to date," Spain said patiently. He'd explained this, he was sure. "We were friends. Doing friend things. We are friends, if he isn't too mad."

"Because you screwed up?" Prussia interjected.

"I hugged him, and-"

"You hugged Romano?" Prussia's eyes got wide. "And you still have both balls, right? All internal organs intact? Woah. He likes you."

"What would you know about Romano?" France sighed.

"His brother's dating mine. I know a lot. I tried to hug him once because he looked like Italy, and yeah. He doesn't like to be touched."

"He just told me to let go," Spain chimed in, sounding a little confused. "But I don't think I really screwed it up until I kissed him."

"You kissed him." France flopped on the couch next to him and snorted elegantly. "That is all? That is what ruined everything?"

"It could have been his first." Prussia suggested. "I don't think he gets out much."

"He was very still," Spain agreed. "But…I think it was more than that. Oh, and he said he wasn't Veneziano, but…I didn't want to hug Veneziano, I wanted to hug _him_. And kiss him. Um. But hug him mostly, because you can hug friends."

"You can kiss them too, Spain, I don't mind…"

"Stop it, France. Hey, I bet he just needs some more convincing. Between the three of us, we could do a good job of it." Prussia nodded to himself. "Let's go drink and think of a good plan!"

"I don't know…" Spain said doubtfully.

"He is not worth the trouble," France sniffed.

"He is so worth the trouble," Spain corrected. Prussia pulled them off the couch and started moving them towards the door. "He's just shy."

"Shy is not exactly the wording I would use. Belligerent, yes. Angry for no reason, yes. Rude, yes. Shy? Really?"

"Less talking," Prussia demanded, shoving them. "More drinking."

It was late by the time Spain made it to bed, and he was drunk enough that the room was a little swirly. He nestled into the covers, and then it was dark and quiet and he was alone.

_'Don't you get lonely?'_

The empty house creaked a little around him.

"Yes," he murmured. "Yes, Roma. All the time."

And then he slept.

A/N: Well, that took forever. Happy holidays?

Next Chapter: Romano realizes that Spain is nothing if not persistent, and Spain learns that Romano is nothing if not stubborn. Unstoppable force, meet immovable object.


End file.
